Father Diodato took a deep breath.
“Then, when Leonardo came to see me at the monastery, I saw him looking at the frescoes, and at one point he asked me if I knew Rambaldo Chiti. That’s when I understood, I understood that he had understood.”
All heads in the room turned to Leonardo, who now opened his hands and spoke in an apologetic tone.
“Every branch of a tree is connected to the trunk. I had two branches, Father Diodato. One branch was Giovanni Barraccio, who frequented Countess Cecilia Bergamini’s house. The other was Rambaldo Chiti, who had manufactured the fake letters. Both men had died violent deaths. Where was the point of connection? The person they had in common, that they both knew? You, Father Diodato, who frequented Palazzo Carmagnola, and to whom the Countess sent the hapless Giovanni Barraccio when, because of his inexperience, he thought he might have problems with a large credit of his. And you, Prior of the Poor of Jesus in Saint Jerome, whose monastery was painted with frescoes by Rambaldo Chiti. When Messer Accerrito told me of the murder of Giovanni Barraccio, I worked out why you denied having known Chiti. And, after thinking over what you’d said to me, I realized what was going on.”
“But Messer Leonardo . . .” Galeazzo Sanseverino’s voice was hesitant, as few things were in his life.
“At your command, Captain.”
“I’m not sure I’ve quite grasped what’s going on. Why would Father Diodato have sold these letters for so little?”
“Oh, very simple. It was probably the price stipulated by Chiti for his work. If I know Father Diodato, that’s the criterion, isn’t it? He definitely didn’t want to profit from it.”
“So what would he have gained? What kind of forger doesn’t want to profit from his work?”
“Ah, but we’re not talking about forgers here, Captain. We’re talking about conspirators.”
* * *
“Conspirators?”
“Messer Accerrito, you once explained to me that a bank is like a juggler. You lend money with interest at fifteen percent, and borrow money at twelve percent. Is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“What’s your turnover? About three hundred thousand ducats, am I right?”
“Yes, you are.”
“And what’s your capital? How much do you have deposited, in ready cash? Fifty thousand ducats, am I right?”
Accerrito Portinari wiped his forehead, which was dripping with sweat. “Not exactly. About thirty thousand ducats at the moment. Almost.”
“And what would happen if all your depositaries, all the people who have lent you money to be increased with interest, turned up at the bank on the same day and claimed their capital back?” Leonardo’s voice was gentle, almost embarrassed.
“I couldn’t give it to them. I wouldn’t have it.”
“So you would go bankrupt,” Leonardo almost prompted.
“Yes, but not just me. As I told you, Leonardo, my bank is the most important in Milan. Besides His Lordship Ludovico, there are merchants, carders, metalworkers, weavers, wine growers. They wouldn’t be able to buy the supplies they needed, or pay their workers. It would be a disaster. It would—”
“And tell me, how would one go about persuading all the depositaries to rush to the bank and withdraw their money?”
“That would happen if there were a rumor of a delay in settling bills, because everybody would then realize I don’t have that much money in deposit.”
“And what would happen then?”
“A crisis, Leonardo. A crisis. If money stops circulating, everything collapses. There would almost certainly be an uprising.”
* * *
“Have we understood correctly, Father Diodato? Was that your intention?”
Father Diodato was no longer shaking. He was calm now, almost resigned. “You heard it too. Without money, everything would collapse. Without money, everything would go to rack and ruin. Because money is not a value! A value is eternal, immutable, while money is uncertain, it fluctuates, it inflates and deflates like a sail, and whoever boards a boat with a sail like that doesn’t know where he’s going, or where he’ll end up. To go out to sea, to travel, to navigate correctly, one must look to the stars, which are eternal. And to find one’s direction in life, one must look to the Almighty, to Him and Him alone.”
Father Diodato looked at Leonardo as though he were solely responsible for what was happening.
“We’ve become convinced that man is the measure of all things. But in order to measure things, to know what they are worth, we must buy them with something. We need a true currency against which to measure them, so that we can assess their value, and the only valid currency against which to measure them is God!”
Father Diodato’s voice, still low, had turned furious, like that of a man denouncing an injustice.
Not looking very convinced, Leonardo raised his eyebrows. “Father Diodato, you’re saying that in order to assess the value of something we need a reference point, a yardstick to hold up to whatever it is we are valuing. But how can man refer to God—infinite by His very nature—to value finite things? If we’re talking about length, infinite thumbs are no shorter than infinite palms, and infinite palms are no shorter than infinite arms. If we’re talking about money, infinite lire are no less than infinite ducats. Man’s intellect can assess value only by measuring something as being equal to, or smaller or larger than, his yardstick. But when it comes to the infinite extension of God, a man cannot measure himself against Him, but only surrender. With money, on the other hand, man can compare things because we all value it in the same way.”
Leonardo indicated the sleeve of his own garment, lifting it delicately between the thumb and index of his left hand.
“What color is my clothing, Father? It’s pink, right? How can we be certain that it’s pink? Because we all see it as being the same color, and if we see an object of that color, we recognize it. Nobody has ever been known to see a pink garment as pink, but a pink paper as green. The same applies to money. Money is understood by all men on earth. We all agree that a ducat is worth a ducat. This makes it a value, just like the length of a palm.”
Enraged, Father Diodato lifted his chin. “It’s a mistaken value! Otherwise, why can I obtain money with a wicked action, like killing or stealing? Money rewards you for any action, whether it is good or bad. Money should be a means, not an end, and we can’t look to the money we earn to understand where we should be going! But perhaps by being shown its true nature, its fallacious nature, people would have understood! They would have turned back to the true currency, the true value, the word of God!”
Leonardo looked at Father Diodato as only Leonardo could look at something. His eyes, his neck, his hands, his clothes, his pupils making rapid, almost imperceptible darting movements. After a few seconds, Leonardo looked at the friar gravely.
“There would be death and destruction. Have you thought of that?”
“God also destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, so that His message might be heard.”
“And are you God? If I look at you, Father Diodato, I see two legs, two arms, and one head. You’re a man, like me. And you’ve acted like a man.”
“Like a man, but guided by the word of God.”
“Like a man and nothing else, and I’ll prove it to you.”
Leonardo turned and, with the palm of his hand facing upward, indicated his fellow-Florentine.
“Now, Messer Accerrito, you’ve won your battle. The letters have been declared fake, without a shadow of a doubt, through confession. Why are you so downhearted?”
All those present, who had followed the exchange between Leonardo and Father Diodato as though spellbound, now turned to the banker. His face was pasty, his forehead beaded with sweat, and there were two small white wedges of saliva at the corners of his mouth. Far from looking like a winner, Accerrito Portinari looked li
ke someone who had been dealt a fatal blow.
“Because I . . .” Accerrito looked at il Moro, who sat there, silent and stern. “Your Lordship, I . . .”
“Among your indebted customers, among the people to whom you’ve lent money, are the most prestigious merchants and individuals in Milan. Is Father Diodato also one of them?”
“Yes, Messer Leonardo. Yes, of course he’s one of them.”
“How much money did you lend him?”
“Ten thousand ducats. Ten thousand ducats that . . .”
That if you sentence Father Diodato to death I will have lost forever: Accerrito Portinari completed the sentence with his eyes, which he turned to the Lord of Milan in supplication.
Ludovico shook his head, confirming Father Diodato’s fate, as well as the closely connected fate of the aforementioned ten thousand ducats.
“I can’t help thinking, Father Diodato, that in causing Accerrito Portinari’s bankruptcy, you would have cancelled your debt.” Ludovico’s voice, firm and crisp, seemed to make the air vibrate. “Ten thousand of those ducats you claim to despise so much and yet did not hesitate to borrow. You have invoked God as a yardstick, Father Diodato, but let me tell you, you are small even beside a man.”
Then, without changing the direction of his gaze, his voice changed.
“Master Leonardo, please accept my respects and my apologies.”
Leonardo lifted his head toward Ludovico. His gaze was weary but serene. “I am glad to have complied with your requests, Your Lordship. With your permission, I should like to take my leave and go home.”
“As you wish, Master Leonardo.”
“Please excuse me . . .”
Standing among the others, Riccetto Nannipieri had raised his finger, trying to attract attention.
“Messer Riccetto, do you have a request?”
“Well, since I was the one to confess, and you did promise you’d let me get out of here as soon as I’d provided a full explanation, Your Lordship, and since Messer Leonardo is leaving, perhaps I could also go . . .”
Ludovico slapped himself on the forehead, emphatically. “Yes, of course, how absent-minded of me. Captain, take Messer Riccetto to the executioner right now. Have his hands cut off at the wrists, then throw him out of my castle immediately.”
“But . . . but . . . Your Lordship promised—”
“To release you as soon as you confessed. I never said you’d get back home in one piece.”
TWELVE PLUS ONE AND A HALF
(SEE ABOVE)
The group of men proceeding through the San Nazzario district was a curious one, to say the least.
Four armed men, with swords and chain mail, surrounding two other men who were talking calmly, one of them tall, dressed in dark cloth, the other of average height, with fair hair and a well-trimmed beard, wearing an impeccable pink outfit.
“So how did you get to the right person?” Galeazzo Sanseverino asked, looking around.
Fortunately, the street was semi-deserted.
After furtively leaving by the wooden bridge in back of the castle, the two men had walked through the Cusani district as far as the junction with the Rovello district, then taken the narrow street known as the district of San Nazzario alla Pietrasanta. To go where they were going, it would have been better to proceed through the Solata district, which was much wider and more brightly lit, as the name suggested, but they would have been even more visible, and that was something neither Leonardo nor Galeazzo wanted in the least.
“Well, Captain, I noticed a couple of times that conversations in the house where we are going had a specific connection to what happened the following day, or even the same day.”
“I see. So whenever you said something about the death of Rambaldo Chiti . . .”
“. . . something else would immediately happen that concerned the people involved in the matter. It happened every time it was discussed in Countess Cecilia’s house.”
* * *
“Not in your house, Countess. I couldn’t have come to your home to tell you what I’m about to tell you. Or rather to ask you what I’m about to ask you.”
“As far as I’m concerned, every wish of yours is an invitation, Your Lordship,” Cecilia Gallerani said, her head down but her eyes open toward il Moro. Eyes that once caressed and now scrutinized.
“Don’t even say it. You see, Countess—”
“There was a time when you called me by my name, Your Lordship.”
“Cecilia, there was a time when I wasn’t married. Now I am, and my wife, the mother of my son Ercole Massimiliano, is very jealous.”
“I had occasion to notice that,” Cecilia replied, turning her gaze to the outside courtyard, and it wasn’t clear whether she was looking at the Rocchetta, where she had lived during the first few months of il Moro’s marriage, or at the brand-new cloth over the east window. “I think you should treat her with the respect she has earned. We are talking about the future Duchess of Milan, after all.”
“The same respect you owe your husband, His Excellency, Count Bergamini. Where is he at the moment?”
“In the country, at San Giovanni in Croce, Your Lordship.”
“It might not be a bad idea to be with him over the next few months, don’t you think?”
“Do you mean I should join him or call him back home?”
“The former, Countess. I’m sure a bit of country air could only do you and little Cesare good. By the way, Countess, there’s something else I need to tell you. It’s the second reason I asked to speak to you in the castle.”
“About my husband?”
“About your house, Countess.”
* * *
“Twice, while I was in the house, I happened to mention the unfortunate events in the Piazzale delle Armi and Chiti’s death. The first time was when I recounted how the wretch had been killed, and said that he hadn’t died from a divine bolt of lightning or a disease. But the second time was when I told the Countess that I knew the name of the dead man and had made a connection with the fake letter of credit fabricated by him. If you remember, I went to the castle that very day with Botta, to provide the names of a few people I knew had been in business with the hapless Bencio Serristori.”
“I remember. And Botta told me you also mentioned this Giovanni Barraccio.”
“I congratulate you on your memory, Captain. You see, I was struck by the fact that, having mentioned Giovanni Barraccio and Countess Gallerani having told me that she had referred Barraccio to Father Diodato herself, the wretched Barraccio was then murdered that same night. To prevent him from talking. He was the only eyewitness to the delivery of the letter, a letter which was then not cashed. Father Diodato could have easily said that he’d received no visit from Barraccio.”
“And you’re saying that the same hand killed Rambaldo Chiti?”
Leonardo shook his head gravely, despite the fast pace at which he was walking. “Not the same hand but the same head. There are two different murderers. It wasn’t Father Diodato who killed Rambaldo.”
As he walked, Leonardo tripped over a stone and lost his balance for a moment. Then he resumed his previous rhythm and continued:
“At first, I thought Chiti had been forced into a corset of armor and squeezed until his soul was expelled together with the air. But then I realized it wouldn’t have been easy to persuade a man to wear a suit of armor against his will, or to force it on him. No, there was an easier way of doing it. As easy as eavesdropping behind the door when the Countess is having a heart-to-heart with a man who knows many things.”
Leonardo turned to Galeazzo, while continuing to walk briskly.
“If that man had been at your home for a romantic assignation, it would have been easy to persuade him to get into a clothes chest, with his legs bent, in a fetal position, then close the chest and press it down on the wretch li
ke pincers.”
“It takes a lot of strength to do that, Messer Leonardo,” Galeazzo objected. “I don’t know if a woman would be capable of it, especially with a man as strong and healthy as Chiti.”
“Oh, she would be. All she needs is a chest with a device that multiplies your strength, following the principle of the lever and the pulley, so that every arm’s length rotation, made with minimum force, corresponds to a movement of the thumb, but made with enormous force.”
“And does such a mechanical chest exist, Messer Leonardo? Are you sure this person owns one?”
“I am sure of it, Captain Galeazzo. I engineered and built it myself. And it’s located in the house we are about to enter.”
Galeazzo and Leonardo stopped outside the door. The rear entrance of Palazzo Carmagnola, the home of Countess Cecilia Gallerani Bergamini. Leonardo stepped aside for his companion.
“I think you should be the one to knock, Captain.”
Which Galeazzo did, with determination. A few seconds later, a pretty young woman opened the door, saw Galeazzo, saw Leonardo, saw the four armed men in particular, and turned white as a sheet.
“The Countess is not at home, gentlemen.”
“That’s of no matter, Madamigella Tersilla. It’s you we’ve come to see.”
FOURTEEN
Cecilia Gallerani stood motionless in the middle of the courtyard.
Around her, frescoes depicting the most important episodes of Milan’s recent history, from the peace of Ferrara to the wedding of Francesco Sforza.
At her side, Leonard had just explained the ins and outs of how the two of them had also played an active part in the city’s history, although it was unlikely anyone would put their words and arguments in a fresco. We know that for those who paint it, history is made up of battles or conquests; but painters, just like generals, forget that battles are won by historians, as someone would remark about four hundred and fifty years later, not too far from where our characters were standing now.
The Measure of a Man Page 20